


Lucky

by codswallop



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Consentacles, Crack, F/M, First Time, Porn Battle, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tentacles were not at all part of the original plan; Martin wanted to make that quite clear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Porn Battle](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/57050.html?thread=8477658#cmt8477658) prompt "Martin/Any, tentacles."
> 
> Contains spoilers for episode 4.3, "Vaduz"

The tentacles were not at all part of the original plan; Martin wanted to make that quite clear. Despite the way things ended up, it started out as an entirely tentacle-free proposition.

First off, the trip to Duxford went remarkably well. Martin hadn’t had time to work himself into a gibbering frenzy over it, and the princess-- _Theresa_ \--wasn’t the sort you had to work yourself into anything about, anyway, it seemed. Even when Martin said horribly inappropriate things by accident, she simply laughed them off, and not in a mean way, either. She made it seem as if he were being amusing _on purpose._

And with the way she kept looking at him, out of the corners of her eyes, and the way she kept touching his arm or his chest when she laughed, it was almost as though...

“So,” Theresa said, when they’d walked very slowly round the museum, twice over in case they’d missed anything on the first circuit. “Am I going to get lucky tonight?”

“Oh,” Martin said. “Are, are you--I’m sorry, ha, you didn’t mean, although it almost sounded like--never mind, oh god, you--what, what do you mean?” He felt his ears go an even deeper shade of red than they’d been previously.

Theresa looked delighted. “I mean, would you like to come back to my hotel with me, you ridiculous man.”

Martin looked round to be sure she wasn’t speaking to anyone else and he’d somehow got between them by accident. There were no other men anywhere about, though, certainly no ridiculous ones; he was pretty safely the most ridiculous person within at least a ten-meter radius. 

Theresa doubled up laughing, and then took his arm and kissed him on the bright red tip of his ear. “Yes, of course you! My ridiculous pilot,” she said fondly, and led him outside to the taxi stand. 

*

Martin was almost certain that “come back to my hotel with me” would turn out to mean something entirely different in Liechtenstein, but from the way Theresa removed his hat and began passionately kissing him as soon as the door to her suite had shut behind them, it appeared that it didn’t. 

“Wow,” Martin said, not caring that he was apparently channeling Arthur now, not even caring that his hat had been cast aside onto the floor--not _very_ much. “Really, that’s--wow. _You’re_ wow. I can’t believe this, any of it. Are you quite sure there hasn’t been some dreadful mistake? Douglas hasn’t tricked you into thinking I’m secretly related to the royal family, or anything like that?”

Theresa shuddered. “What a terrible thought,” she said. “Definitely not. I like you, that’s all. Is that really so difficult for you to fathom?”

“Yes,” said Martin, and Theresa laughed and began kissing him again, even more passionately than before. His captain’s jacket and tie soon joined his hat, crumpled on the floor in an unprecedented state of reckless abandon.

 _Kissing is brilliant,_ Martin thought, and then _God, I really am channelling Arthur,_ only he still couldn’t bring himself to care, and then he took a minute to exult over the fact that he’d be able to lord this over Douglas for ages--not that he would, of course, he’d be a perfect gentleman, but he might just hint that--

“There is something I haven’t told you about, though, Martin,” Theresa broke off to say.

“Hmm?” Martin said, too giddy to pay much attention. The princess had opened her blouse and taken his hand and put it right inside, and he was lost in a soft new world of cupping and stroking, wondering if he might eventually dare to progress to nuzzling. 

“The royal line of Liechtenstein is possessed of a certain genetic abnormality.” Theresa had her hands inside _his_ shirt now, and it was really, absolutely too much to expect anyone to process language while this was going on. Theresa seemed to understand this, because she pushed Martin away from her gently and took a few steps back from his reach.

 _Right, it’s all off, then,_ Martin told himself as soon as she moved away from him--all a mistake after all; he hoped a mistake and not a cruel joke. She appeared to be unfastening her skirt, though. Perhaps hope wasn’t entirely dead.

“A genetic abnormality of the genitals, to be very specific,” Theresa said. “It is perhaps easiest if I show you.” The skirt fell softly to the rug, followed by her underthings.

Martin’s first thought, unfortunately, was _Of course._ Of course it would never be his luck to simply end up with a beautiful, unattached, aeroplane-loving princess; he’d had to find a beautiful, unattached, aeroplane-loving princess _with tentacles_. Of course he had. That was the true Crieff touch. 

His second thought, however, was the one he said aloud. “God. You are...gorgeous.” She truly was, even considering that he didn’t have all that many naked women in his memory banks with which to compare, and then he looked up at her face and saw how much she’d been expecting him to end that sentence with a word completely unlike _gorgeous_. 

“You really, really are,” Martin said quickly, feeling terribly tender and protective toward her all of a sudden. Perhaps they weren’t so different from each other after all. “But could we, could I just--”

“You want to ‘take things a little more slowly,’ let me guess,” Theresa said, sounding resigned. “Or perhaps you’ve just remembered somewhere you promised to be in half an hour?”

 _“No,”_ said Martin. “Could I just kiss you again, I was going to say, possibly in a...bed-type situation? Is there a bed anywhere in this enormous suite, where we could...be in bed? Together?”

“There are several beds, I believe,” Theresa told him, beginning to look delighted again. “You may choose.”

*

“How does it--they--how does it all, er, work?” Martin asked, once they’d been between the sheets for a while and he’d been emboldened by his success in kissing (and indeed nuzzling) all the safer above-the-waist territory.

“Touch,” Theresa dared him, and Martin took a deep breath and moved his hand lower, hovering between her legs and then carefully stroking a finger down one of the long, tapered tendrils of flesh round her vulva. It was slick to the touch and supple, like nothing he’d ever felt, and it twined warmly about his finger in an almost sentient sort of way. Uncanny, to be sure, but not unpleasant, and it was offset by the very human-sounding moans that Theresa gave as he fondled her--or was fondled by her; it was difficult to say which. He stroked up and down several of them at once, then gave one a light exploratory pinch at the tip, and the others gripped his hand convulsively, drawing it firmly down until his fingers slipped inside her. 

“Oh!” Theresa gasped. “Just like that, just there. Oh, Martin. I’m going to need to design an entirely new medal, just for you.”

Martin could hardly spare a thought for what the Royal Tentacular Intercourse Medal of Liechtenstein might look like, because it had suddenly occurred to him how it was going to feel to be gripped elsewhere by those slick and clever appendages. Even now, one was sliding shyly up his inner thigh, making him shiver with anticipation.

“I have a feeling this experience is going to be its own reward,” he said, and let out an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak as it coiled higher. “Do they...” Martin paused, trying to find words for the question that most naturally arose when one discovered that one’s partner came equipped with self-lubricating tentacles. “Do they go, you know, _in_ , as well?”

“Do you want them to?” Theresa asked, studying his face, and Martin hardly knew how to answer. The warm, wet flicker of a tentacle-tip at his entrance stole his breath away, and he held very still while it explored him. Then it retreated, and he exhaled in a long, shuddering sigh.

“Oh, more, please,” he begged, feeling his whole body flush, and Theresa laughed in triumph.

*  
*  
*

“Sir seems particularly restless and distracted today,” Douglas observed the next day, when they’d reached cruising altitude over the North Sea. “Is Sir regretting his decision not to share any more details regarding his recent social engagements with certain European heads of state, by any chance?”

“What? No!” Martin had, in fact, been squirming a bit in his seat, unable to settle on a comfortable position that didn’t remind him too much of the night before. And that morning. And the limousine on the way to the airport. “I told you, it went very well.” He lapsed back into calculating how many more hours it would be before the plane returned to Fitton and all the post-landing checks were complete.

Douglas waited for a full minute. “How well?” 

“Douglas, for god’s sake, what exactly do you want to know?” Martin cried. (Twenty-nine hours at minimum, with a good tail wind and no landing delays: an eternity, an age. Theresa had extended her suite reservation for an extra two weeks, and Maxi’s school’s first Visiting Weekend was only another two weeks out after that, but even so.)

“Never mind,” Douglas said, and clapped Martin on the back in a consoling sort of way. “Your bad temper speaks volumes. I’m not sure one date qualifies her for the bobsled team, but it was an excellent showing on your part just the same. Better luck next time.”

Martin refrained from telling Douglas that if his luck got any better he’d be courting heart failure. He shifted in his seat again, this time for the pure pleasure of reminding himself what awaited him back at home. “Yes, well,” he said. “You never know.”


End file.
